"A soul will trust what it recognizes. Do not show them something foreign-- show them themselves. Reflect their thoughts back to them; shape their emotions as if they are your own. Let them believe you see them clearer than anyone else ever has. When they find comfort in your reflection, they will mistake it for understanding. That is when they will start to let you in."

-Excerpt from The Infernal Guidebook: The Art of Unraveling a Soul

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The days stretch on, each one blending into the next as I try to push thoughts of Azrael to the edges of my mind. I bury myself in my usual routines: writing, work, errands, but no matter how hard I focus, there's always that lingering anticipation beneath the surface. Every time I pass by Starbucks or go in to write, my mind thinks back to Azrael, but I always manage to catch myself quickly and shake off the thoughts. It's just coffee.

By midweek, there are no more messages from him. No unnecessary follow-ups or attempts to keep the conversation going. It's strange. Most people would've sent something, some breadcrumb to keep my attention, but Azrael? He's quiet. And that somehow makes it worse.

The day of, the morning light filters through my window, but I'm tense. It's just coffee, I remind myself again, standing in front of the mirror, but the way my heart is beating says otherwise.

"Okay," I say to my reflection, "not too casual... but not like I'm trying either." I put on one of my favorite outfits, something comfortable but still confident. Something that feels like armor but softens the edges just enough. I fix my hair, catching the small details: stray strands, a piece that won't sit right, but eventually I sigh and let it be.

My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, no new messages from Azrael. Still no confirmation, no "See you soon."   He'll be there. The way he plays the game, smooth, controlled, and perfectly timed, it'd be too off-brand if he wasn't.

Grabbing my bag, I check one last time to make sure I've got everything: my laptop, notebook, and the folded napkin with his number still tucked away in the side pocket. I eye it for a second, but leave it there.

I head out the door into the buzzing city. Starbucks is only a few blocks away. Let's see what kind of game he'll be playing today.

I push open the door letting the scent of coffee and pastries wrap around me like a blanket. My eyes scan the space immediately, but I force myself to keep it casual so it doesn't look like I'm searching for him. It's empty anyway. No sign of Azrael.

Perfect.

I pick my usual table by the window, the same one as last time, and slide into the seat. Without hesitation, I pull out my laptop and notebook.

I pull up my current project, still going through the unicorns' interrogations and let my fingers hover over the keyboard. But despite my best efforts, I can't help but be too aware of the soft jingle above the door as new customers come in. My heart jumps slightly at the bell each time, but I don't look up.

"You really know how to keep someone guessing," a familiar voice says.

I turn my head slightly to see Azrael leaning against the back of the chair opposite me, coffee already in hand, that same effortless smile playing on his lips. He's dressed casually, but somehow he still carries that air of control.

"Hope I'm not interrupting," he adds, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise.

Game on.

"Guessing?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," he says smoothly, pulling out the chair and sitting down, "You walked in here like you weren't waiting for me, got all set up and focused like I was an afterthought." He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, "But then I wondered... was that for me? Or for you?" There's a teasing lilt in his voice, but beneath it, there's that sharp edge again like he's studying my every move, "You play it cool, like you're always in control."

"So you did get here first? You watched me get set up?" I ask amused.

"Maybe," he smiles, "Or maybe I just got lucky, catching the exact moment you sat down." Doubtful. "I wanted to see how you'd act if you thought you were alone. If you'd look around for me. Or if you'd do exactly what you did, pretend you weren't wondering when I'd walk in." He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine. "You didn't disappoint." His smile softens into something dangerously warm, but there's a sharpness there, like he's proud of how closely he's watching me, and wants me to know it. "Does that bother you?" he asks, tilting his head slightly as he watches my reaction. "Knowing I was already here?"

"No." I smirk. If anything it teaches me something about his need to read people. I do it casually, he does it compulsively. Maybe that's why he's so much better at controlling the situation. "Why did you feel the need to read what I would do?"

Azrael's smile deepens, like he knows I'm starting to unravel his methods. Still, he doesn't flinch. If anything, he looks amused. "Because," he says smoothly, fingers tapping lightly on his coffee cup, "people reveal the most when they think no one's watching. If I can read someone, then I'm always one step ahead. I know what they want before they do, like what they're afraid of, and where the cracks are. People can't hurt you if you already know what their next move is. It's like a shield, I guess. One I've gotten too good at using." He holds my gaze as if searching for something, before letting out a soft breath and offering a small, almost self-deprecating smile. "But I'm guessing you already figured that out, didn't you?"

"Do you know what my next move is?" I ask, relieved that his mask is the one slipping for once.

A slow, thoughtful smile spreads across his lips, but this time it's less performative. "No," he admits, "That's what makes this interesting. I think that scares me more than I'd like to admit."

"I guess we're on the same page then," I huff a laugh before taking a sip of coffee.

"Yeah," he murmurs, tapping his coffee cup. "I guess we are."

"How was your week?" I change the subject.

"It was... different," he admits, "I kept thinking about our last conversation. It's not often I walk away from something and replay it afterward. But I tried to keep busy working, people-watching. You know, the usual. What about you?"

"Same, mostly just work and writing. What kind of work do you do?"

"I do a little bit of everything," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Consulting, mostly. Helping people figure out what they really want. Sometimes they don't even know it themselves until I point it out.  It's strange how often people think they want one thing, but deep down, it's something entirely different. I guess I'm good at showing them the cracks in their plans."   There's something vaguely evasive about his explanation, but I store that for later.

"Figuring out what people really want seems fitting. I work as a copy editor, proofreading, fact-checking, formatting, all that."

"That makes sense. You're calm and observant, someone who's used to picking apart the details most people miss. That takes patience," he says thoughtfully, "I bet it gets frustrating though, combing through every little mistake, but I can see you being the kind of person who won't stop until it's perfect."

"True," I nod, "Do you enjoy what you do?"

He sighs, "My work has its moments. There's something satisfying about helping people uncover the truth about themselves even if they didn't want to see it at first. Sometimes it feels hollow, like no matter how much you help someone, they end up making the same choices and falling back into the same patterns. It's like they don't really want to change, even when they say they do." He pauses, "That's why I like talking to people like you. You're not pretending to have it all figured out, you're still searching, still open. Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you'd chosen a different path?"

"All the time. I think about what my life would be like if I lived in other countries, if I chose another career, everything. I don't think I'd change my current life, but I do wonder about other paths I could have taken. How about you?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I think about it all the time. The paths I didn't take, the ones I almost did but backed out of. But sometimes I wonder if it even matters. Like no matter which path I would've chosen, I'd still end up here. Doing the same thing. Being the same person."

"Are there any paths you wish you would have explored in particular?"

"There was a time," he begins slowly, "when I thought about taking a path that was... simpler.  Something normal, something that didn't involve reading people, playing games, or being in the complicated mess I'm in now." He lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "But it wasn't enough. I convinced myself I was better suited for the path I'm on. More control."

"It can be hard to judge what side of the grass really is greener sometimes," I say.

"Yeah," he echoes, "It's funny how that works, isn't it? You stare at the other side for so long, convinced it's better, shinier... but then, when you finally get there, you realize it's just the same grass. Different shade. Same dirt underneath." His fingers tap meditatively against the coffee cup, "I think that's what messes people up. It's not really about where the grass is greener, it's about where you feel like you belong. And sometimes you convince yourself you're meant to stay on the side with all the weeds, because that's what you deserve." The rawness in his voice surprises me.

"Who determined weeds were bad anyway? They're native plants to the land they grow on, and best suited for it. The only reason people hate them is because they take the nutrients they deserve from the 'colonizer' plants people grow because they look prettier," I joke lightly.

Azrael's eyes widen slightly, and then a genuine laugh escapes him. "Damn," he shakes his head. "That's actually brilliant.  Weeds aren't the problem, they're just growing where they belong, even if no one wants to see them there.  You dive deep, even when you don't mean to," There's tension in the way he says that, but it passes quickly as he continues, "I get the feeling you don't even realize how much you give away sometimes."

My heart skips a beat. "What do you think I've given away?" I question.

"Maybe how you see a bit yourself in the weeds too. You're overlooked but are stronger than anyone realizes. You joke it off, but there's truth in it. You don't just notice the weeds, you relate to them. And the way you talk about them? Like they deserve to be here, even when no one wants them to be? That says a lot." There's something in his gaze that makes my stomach flip, but I don't look away. "How often do people actually understand that? It must be tiring."

His jaw tenses for a second before he breaks the moment with a softer smile. "But hey," he adds, his tone lighter again, "I could be wrong." It's clear he doesn't think so.

"I suppose you're not..." I admit a bit uneasily. The knot in my stomach tightens upon that reflection, but I hide behind my coffee cup, taking a slow sip to steady myself. There's still a part of me that wants to push him out, but at the same time it somehow feels easier letting him say it first, leaving me to simply confirm with a "yes" or "no." Laying this much of my mind out by myself would have taken months with any other person. Can I really imagine wishing we were still only on square one like that?

"I expected you to dodge responding to that," he jokes lightly.

"I suppose you figuring out my mind first means less mental strain on me later," I joke.

"Smart," he smirks, "Let someone else do the heavy lifting.  Isn't there a risk of people getting you wrong though, when they don't voice their assumptions? Isn't it like giving them the power to decide what they think you feel, instead of you being in control?"

"I don't care if people are wrong about me. We all have wrong assumptions. If they say something wrong I'll correct them, but otherwise I don't care."

"That's... freeing, I guess. But also risky. I guess we're all a little messed up in how we handle being seen," he says.

"Do you have people you let fully in?"

"No, not really," he leans back in his chair, "But then I meet people like you, and I wonder if maybe it's better to let someone actually see the whole picture, even if it's not all good."

"People like me? Even though we've only seen each other three times?" I ask curiously.

"Yeah," he says steadily, "Even though it's only been three times." He pauses, looking almost like he's choosing his words carefully, but not in his usual calculated way.

"You're more like me than I expected, I think. You're guarded, but when you say something real, even just a little, it means something. And you listen. You don't slam the door in my face, despite all my rambling," He chuckles softly, "And it's not just what you say, it's how you're always balancing between letting someone in and keeping them at a safe distance. I do the same thing.  So yeah, even after three times, you feel like someone I could actually let in."

"I think you're overestimating me," I laugh nervously, "There are plenty of people like that, plenty who are even better at that stuff than I am."

"Maybe," he says slowly, his voice low and thoughtful, "but I'm not talking about people who are 'better' at this. I'm talking about you. Sure, there are plenty of people who overthink, who guard themselves, who play it cool. But the way you do it?  It's not about being perfect at it. It's about the fact that, even with all those layers, there's still something real that slips through. You say you're hiding, but you're not really. That's what makes you different. Pieces of the puzzle slip through in a way that only someone on your level would be able to gather and fit together."

"Ahh so in other words you like that I'm actually terrible at this and let pieces of myself through unintentionally. Got it," I smirk, but his words do make by body buzz nervously. "Now I'm tempted to completely turn into a brick wall and see just how well your skills work on someone who gives absolutely nothing away."

"Oh?" he says, playfully, but with an edge. "A brick wall, huh?"

I stare at his coffee cup for a moment and sigh. There wouldn't really be a point to shutting him out, because I do believe he'd get through eventually, if he's that determined. Prolonging the inevitable has always felt like a waste of time to me. "I don't think I'm patient enough to be a wall," I admit.

"Good," he murmurs. "But if you ever do turn into one, at least let me be the one to leave the first crack."

"I'll put Thor's hammer right in front of it. It can decide who's worthy enough to crack it for me," I joke.

"Now that's a challenge," he says, "Being patient and worthy. But you know, I'm stubborn enough to keep trying. And maybe I'd get there, not because I'm worthy in the traditional sense, but because I'd figure out how to crack the system. Or maybe you'd end up feeling bad for me after the third or fourth failed attempt and just hand me the damn hammer."

"Crack the system?" I raise my eyebrows, "So you don't always play by the rules?"

Azrael smirks, his eyes gleaming with something darker. "Rules are made for people who don't know how to bend them," he says, studying me, "And sometimes, it's not about bending the rules, it's about convincing the system that you belong inside, even if you don't. But," he adds with a grin, "I'd still rather you hand me the hammer. Would save me some time."

He glances at my empty cup, then back at me, playfully. "So, do I get to see you again? Or is this where you build that brick wall and drop Thor's hammer right in front of me?"

"I guess we'll have to see each other again. My friends in Asgard are a bit hard to get ahold of," I joke.

"Lucky me. Guess I've bought myself some time. Then, same time on Friday? Or sooner, if you get bored."

"Sounds good," I smile.

"Perfect, see you soon, then."

The bell above the door jingles as he exits. I take out my laptop again out of habit, but as I sit, alone now, one thing's clear, this is far from over.

After a bit of writing I make my way home and let the walk clear my thoughts a little. By the time I reach my door and kick off my shoes, I'm exhausted, yet excited. I set my bag down, grab a snack, and sink into the couch. My phone lights up on the table with notifications, but none from him.  I'll see him again soon anyway. As much as I wouldn't be opposed to seeing him sooner like he suggested, I don't want to seem desperate. I'll keep to the original plan for Friday. It keeps me in control, at least a little bit. The thought makes me smile.